


Grim

by TheGoodDoctor



Series: Group Targets [23]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 06:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8361214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: Once upon a time...





	

Eve is alone in the wood.

The darkness is pressing around her but she is not afraid; she is familiar with the trees, the mossy forest floor, the dusty path from which she must not stray. With keen eyes she searches, following the path through the wood and looking for the others who travel between the trees.

The flowers are beautiful here: bluebells and snowdrops and the odd golden crocus, petals held open to the emerald canopy above. Eve looks about her, then guiltily runs from the path. She kneels in the blossoms, smelling their sweet scent and feeling the waxy, smooth leaves under her fingers. She breaks off a spray of bluebells, twirling the tiny purple flowers between long, elegant fingers.

A twig cracks behind her and she startles, leaping to hide behind a tree. The sound came from the path, and she watches as a little girl copies her earlier movements; looks around, knowing that what she does is not permitted, and then trots between the pines and beeches to kneel amongst the flowers. The child begins to pick the flowers and hold them all in one chubby fist. She hums lightly under her breath, placing the flowers gently in the basket by her side.

Eve looks down at the bluebells covering the forest floor. They contrast beautifully with the little girl’s red, hooded cloak; lapis lazuli under rubies. She spins the flower spray between her fingers absently.

As she steps out from behind the tree, the flowers drop from her fingers. They bounce once on the moss and are crushed under Eve’s boot.

“What are you doing away from the path, Little Red Riding Hood?”

* * *

James is so angry.

Q had confided in him. He had laughed about it. He had thought his childhood was _relatable._

His siblings would pay.

Q had been treated like nothing more than a slave by his own family and had not even thought that it was unusual. He almost had not gone to the ball, had not met James, had never been freed from his own personal _hell._

They would pay for what they had done to Q, to the most important person in James’ life, to his husband. To think that they had attempted to trick James into choosing them instead. To think of what they would, yet again, had taken from Q. To think of how selfish they were.

Q tugs on his arm. “James, I didn't ask for this.”

James shrugs him off, rolling his shoulders. “I know. That's why they must pay.”

“No.” Q jumps in front of him, nervous and almost cowering before his husband but standing his ground. “I didn't ask for _this_ ,” he says, gesturing at James. “This - this violence; I didn't ask for it.”

James pushes him gently but firmly aside. “What they have done is criminal. It deserves retaliation in kind.”

“Then you're no better than they are,” Q says softly.

James does his best to ignore him, swirling his sword in a circle by his side. The words reverberate around his skull as he slices downwards once, twice. He steps away, breathing heavily. It isn't as satisfying as he had hoped, but it is done. James drops his bloody sword and walks back through the dark corridors of his castle until he reaches his bedchamber.

Inside it's warm and gloomy, the fire just about lighting the room. He strips off and slides under the covers.

James tries to tell himself that it's fine that Q doesn't curl into the warmth of his side immediately, as he usually does. He stares at the back which faces him and tells himself that he's adjusting.

That at least he's still here.

* * *

Bill yawns so widely his jaw cracks.

He's been up making shoes for hours now, carefully hand-stitching leather with minute, precise stitches. He has to; the family will not eat otherwise. They cannot pay the rent with how much they make and sell and earn, but with Bill’s help they can.

So every night, the family go to bed and Bill sits at the table and begins his work. He cuts and shapes the leather, he stitches together the shoes, he treats the leather, and the family earn money and live in comfort and their children go to school.

Bill does not mind the trade.

He minds the attitude. Some have become complacent due to his help; they forget that they, too, must work and cannot rely on elves. They do not treat him with respect, merely live upon his earnings.

It will not stand.

Dawn light streams through the open window, lancing across Bill’s labour. There is a creak on the stair.

Gareth wanders into the kitchen, yawning. “Morning, Bill,” he says.

Bill folds his hands, sighing quietly. “Good morning.”

Gareth nods approvingly at the shoes. “Got a lot done. Good work.”

“Thanks,” Bill says softly.

“Mm,” Gareth says, remembering something around a slice of toast. “Got something for you.”

He hands the elf a small paper parcel. Inside is a perfect suit, made just for the elf. “Thank you,” Bill says, startled.

“As recompense for your work,” Gareth says, as if one suit is equal to three months’ work, every night, making shoes to support their family.

“You shouldn't have,” Bill says, but Gareth doesn't seem to detect the passive aggression.

Bill walks away from the house in his new suit. It's a good suit, but nothing is better than the feeling of freedom. He need no longer work for them. He might do as he wished.

But forever sewn into the lining is his guilt. That family needed him, his labour, his support. He knew not what would happen to them without him.

Bill supposed they would have to find out.


End file.
